Inheritance

Part 2. Chapter 14: A Radical Dreamer

What is it you want to do with your life, Eory? Kori's voice seemed to echo in his mind as he hid deeper and deeper within the shadows of Taylor's sub-conscious.

All his surroundings were black as he sadly lay on his belly with his cheek pressed to the black floor. His eyes were closed, but, at hearing Kori's soothing voice, he opened his eyes and saw a much younger version of himself sitting on the waif's lap while she brushed his hair.

Eory's legs wiggled restlessly and he exclaimed with a wide grin, "I want to be an artist! I've always wanted to cast the Arrozan name aside to become one!"

Kori was delighted about him saying that. She whispered sincerely, "if that's what you want to do, then do it. No looking back."

And Eory watched his younger self leap from Kori's lap and begin drawing various things. Like he was a ghost, young Eory seemed to keep disappearing and reappearing all around the dark room with new pictures popping up with him until both the walls and floor were covered in them.

Most of them were pictures of Gershom, his old dog, Kori, and himself. There were a few of his biological parents; it was before Eory knew better.

The adult Eory pulled himself to a sitting position and his heartbeat seemed to slow as he watched his younger self appear and disappear and dance around the room with unprecise strokes of the pen dotting the crinkled pieces of parchment scattered everywhere.

Gentle, happy tears rolled down Eory's cheeks as he picked up one of the pictures he had drawn of himself and Kori holding hands. His tears colored the picture blue, and he placed it to his side gently as he continued to watch his younger self.

On the black wall in front of him, Eory watched his younger self draw a mural-sized picture of himself looking out a window at some stars. Kori appeared beside him and she whistled with how impressed she was by the drawing.

Kori took the pen from Eory and added in big, prim, clean letters in a script befitting of her:

Dreamer

And time continued to pass before Eory's eyes.

The pictures had slowly gone from happy and hopeful to lonely and miserable.

He was now watching himself as an adolescent. His strokes were no longer happy, unprecise, and carefree.

They were rigid, purposeful, and expressive.

Yes, every line was meant to express something he wasn't able to; to Kori, himself, or the entire world which had him pegged as an evil Arrozan. He drew himself shouting at the top of his lungs with his teeth were bared in an ugly grimace--furious lines were spread from his cheeks to his chin, and his eyes were narrowed and scrunched up; they looked like a wild dog's when it was threatened.

He had drawn himself with his face in the light and his body in shadow. His fingers were stylistically drawn and contorted like a monster's. They were clawing toward the light.

Others expressed loneliness and sadness. Some had Eory hugging his knees with a blank face, others were of his brother and parents without heads—ones he would never show Kori.

He wanted to be heard so badly. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs that he was a good person who was undeserving of being a lifelong prisoner; he wanted to show the world he was capable of making beautiful things.

He wanted to be heard and understood.

He watched his younger self place a hand on the picture he had drawn. He was thoughtful, and his eyes were hurt and searching.

The only pictures he showed Kori were the happy ones... And all of those happened to be of Pollyanna.

He fixated on her.

He found every inch of her to be beautiful, and couldn't understand his own intense feelings for her.

From her large, icy blue eyes to her untamed mane, to her worldly and very pragmatic wrinkles, which were his favorite part of her, she was inexplicably addicting to draw. There was something about the fact that she wasn't a perfect beauty and was instead someone relatable that made her such a fascinating subject.

He had drawn a few artistic nudes of her to practice female anatomy—and promptly tore them to shreds and threw them out right after he was done.

As if you would know what to do with a naked woman. Taylor would often snicker in his head.

Eory watched his adolescent self open his mouth wide and scream with tears cascading down his cheeks.

And as time went on, he no longer drew anyone but Pollyanna. All his inspiration seemed to be lost when he came to the realization that he would never be able to share his work with the world, and so he committed himself to drawing the thing that gave him peace.

He had buried that desire buried deep down and had become a prisoner—not only of the tower, but of his own body.

He could bite his arm as much as he wished and pray that if he let enough blood out, that the evilness coursing through it would be let out, too, but it never worked.

Similarly, he could try to express himself as much as he wanted through his art, but nobody would ever hear him or even be able to look at it.

Younger Eory gnawed his arm. "What's the point in trying?"

He watched his younger self tear up the mural which said

Dreamer